Thursday, February 24, 2011


Men have a special relationship with their penises (penisis, peni?). It is a bond that is forged at birth and continues until the day they die, and, depending on your religious slant, maybe even into the afterlife, only bigger. Just like the good book says, “To Infinity, and Beyondith”. I think that was Luke 3:16, or maybe it was Leia, whatever. There is nothing rude, lewd, or lascivious about this. It’s not even necessarily about sex inasmuch as it is about evolution. Men can, and will try, to procreate well into their golden years, whereas women begin to lose this proliferate ability as early as their late 40s. It's written into our code man, our DNA. We are slaves to it, making us poor males victims. 

The idea behind this is directly related to the survival and propagation of the species. Men have the ability to sow their seed multiple times a day, with multiple partners so as to create as many offspring as possible. This is not a popular theory as it flies in the face of monogamy and therefore societal norms, unless of course you are Mormon, or a 16 year old mother of 3. Men are like the noble lion that has 6-10 lionesses in his pride, and copulates up to 40 times a day. Rowr. Blame Darwin and his infernal theories of natural selection and survival of the fittest. I believe the popular vernacular is "Don't hate the player, hate the game". Personally I'm against further propagation of this species, but that's another shirt altogether. I digress.

Freud taught us primitive knuckledraggers about the 5 stages of psychosexual development and instinctual libido that develops at birth, the third stage of which is the Phallic stage that commences around age 3. Freud proposed that the stifling or repression of the fixation on ones junk at this stage could result in trauma that manifests as a lifetime of neurosis. Basically our  genitalia define us, and if we don't respect its whims and needs it will mess us up. Big Jim and the Twins are rulin' the roost!

Which brings me to pathetic fallacy. Men often treat their members as though they are a separate autonomous entity, allowing it to think for them and make tough decisions, often deferring to it and having heart felt conversations, or losing arguments with ol' Blackbelt Jones. This leads to countless regretful and embarrassing sexual interludes that can be easily mitigated and justified by placing the blame squarely on Dr. Feelgood's head, and not ones own. This anthropomorphic treatment almost always culminates in the time-worn tradition of The Naming of the Penis, which dates back to Socrates.

All across the globe, at some point in their lives, boys take sword in hand and dub thee (insert penile nickname here). These appellations range from the obvious and banal (Spike) to the colorfully descriptive (Big Man On Campus). Familial appellations are further testament to the bond between a boy and his bits, but can often be ill conceived. There is the trite and cliched (Big Mike), the strange and concerning (Mr. Jenkins), and the poorly marketed (Dougie Jr, or L'il Josh).

When I was 7 years old I begged my parents to take me to the cinema to see Superman, starring Christopher Reeve. A comic geek from an early age I pestered my family daily for a month before it's release to please please please let me see The Last Son of Krypton on the bigscreen. My father being somewhat of a sci-fi geek himself caved and ensured we had tickets for opening night, and as promised I believed a man could fly. I left the theater excited, running through the crowded parking lots with my arms extended in imaginary flight, making swooshing noises as I zipped in between the exiting patrons, and my father adroitly balanced keeping tabs on my locomotive whereabouts while simultaneously pretending I wasn't his hyperactive offspring.

It wasn't until 2 years later with the release of Superman 2 that I realized that although the first film was a fun and impressive milestone, it was also a little flaccid. I mean this was Superman, the Man of Steel, an alien of limitless strength and power...and his main obstacle was foiling a real estate swindle?
This was corrected in Superman 2 by pitting Big Blue against not just one nefarious foe of equal physical abilities, but THREE! Oh the smackdown that ensued left me in near rapture, a breathless 9 year old having an extended geekgasm. Supes' three adversaries left an indelible impression on me; I was aroused by the long legged and sexy Ursa, the mute brute Non terrified me, and the regal and powerful General Zod was just the coolest, badass motherfucker I had ever seen. When he dominates the Oval Office and cooly demands of the President of the United States to "Kneel before Zod", I precociously knew right then and there that I had found my as yet untried unit's namesake: ZOD, aka The General.


  1. Ah yes...the 'ol Zod-rod.

    Keeping on the theme, mine's called 'The Punisher'.

  2. Nice. Sometimes I just refer to Zod by rank: The General.

  3. I think "Geekgasm" may be my new favourite word. Expect it to be used....often.

    Zod? Based on the shirt display, I was expecting Clark. Bravo sir, you threw me for a loop.

    Penises. That is the plural. Don't ask how or why I know.

    On a serous note, the blog content is great :) Keep em coming!